


Surviving The Past

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Blackmail, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Heists, Mercenaries, Murder, Terrorism, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 05:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2217126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An evil specter from Neal’s past reappears in his life and threatens everyone whom Neal holds dear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

     Sometimes Mozzie liked to go native, which, in his case, meant mingling among the ordinary people who frequented Washington Square Park. Today he had cajoled Neal into a chess match at one of the many tables erected in the park for just that reason. Halfway through the third game -- a tiebreaker -- since each had won a previous challenge, one of Mozzie’s burner phones chirped incessantly like a demented cricket. The little bald man meandered away from the table for a bit while he had what looked like an animated discussion with the caller. Eventually he returned and simply exclaimed, “Gotta go!” and Neal was suddenly watching Mozzie’s dust. Neal smiled to himself. After all of their years together, he had come to love his quirky, quixotic friend, and had learned it was usually better not to know certain things. He began to replace the chess pieces into their box when someone suddenly sat on the bench opposite him. When Neal glanced up, his blood ran cold.

     It had been almost fifteen years, but Vassily Yukanavich had changed very little. There was a bit of gray in his hair and a fine network of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but the laconic, cruel sneer was the same as Neal remembered. Neal had barely been in his twenties when he first crossed paths with Yukanavich, who was known as “The Hawk” to every shadowy figure in the world of espionage and terrorism. However, Neal hadn’t known of those ties to international mayhem at the time. Tentative and inexperienced, Neal had been meandering across the Continent in his first foray into European crime. He had made a shaky alliance with a fellow American named Matthew Keller. Keller was young like Neal, but had been at his trade for a bit longer, and was more savvy and hardened. He also had access to some very formidable players -- Yukanavich being one such figure.

     At the time, Neal had not yet heard the folklore that surrounded the man. Although everything was speculation because no one really knew the facts, “The Hawk’s” name was spoken in the utmost of hushed tones. Most doubted that Vassily Yukanavich was even his real name. Some said that his roots were in Chechnya; others vehemently claimed that he had come out of Uzbekistan. Nevertheless, all agreed that he was a ruthless mercenary who got the job done for his clients, leaving no witnesses behind. Everyone feared him, and it wasn’t good for your continued health to say no to him.

     Ignorant of just what he was walking into, Neal allowed Keller to arrange a meet. It seemed that “The Hawk” needed some boots on the ground to help with a warehouse heist on the outskirts of Paris. Neal was naive and assumed that it was money or artwork that he and Keller would have to move, but he couldn’t have been more wrong.

     Yukanavich had brought along a cadre of his own cohorts on the night of the job in addition to Keller and Neal. These associates had quickly overpowered and restrained six armed guards from around the perimeter of the warehouse. When everyone entered the building, the contents made Neal’s heart drop in his chest. From floor to ceiling, every kind of artillery was represented, from Uzis to shoulder-held rocket launchers. There was enough firepower stockpiled to bring an unsuspecting city to its knees, or to invade a small country.

     Soon enough, Neal was given his assignment -- open the huge vault located in the rear of the building. It took a bit of time and patience, but Neal, even just starting out, had made cracking safes his forte. His effort was rewarded when he slowly drew open the double doors and gazed upon a field of glittering stones. There were rows and rows of velvet-lined trays holding the most exquisite white diamonds that Neal had ever seen. Examining a few, Neal was knowledgeable enough to know that this particular size, cut and clarity was the hallmark of Russian diamonds. On the open market, they would be worth millions, if not billions.

     Neal’s “fee” for his services that night had been pre-determined at the initial talks. He was to receive $50,000 and be on his way. However, “The Hawk” wanted to insure Neal and Keller’s silence before he paid them. While his men got busy loading the arsenal of artillery onto flatbed trucks, Yukanavich demonstrated his psychopathic depravity by slowly and methodically torturing the captive guards. He drew the torment out for hours while he made Neal and Keller watch. Keller looked like he was an enthusiast at a cockfight, thoroughly enjoying the show. Neal fought the urge to lose everything in his stomach.

     Eventually, when the concrete floor of the building was almost black with the victims’ blood, and they had ceased their screams, and finally their weak moans, “The Hawk” gave Neal what he could only now regard as blood money. The maniacal sadist had also made the desired impression on a terrified young man. Neal immediately fled France and holed up for months in a little, out-of-the-way fishing village in Greece. For weeks, he could not sleep through the night without hearing those anguished cries. He could swear that their ghosts were haunting him.

     Now the devil incarnate was sitting across from Neal with that evil grin in place. He made Neal’s skin crawl, but in the intervening years since their one and only encounter, Neal had learned a thing or two about hiding his feelings behind a cool façade. He tilted his head slightly while regarding “The Hawk” with detached interest. “Well .…. a blast from the past. It’s been awhile, Vassily. What brings you to New York?”

     The older man favored Neal with a condescending smirk. “Oh my young friend, I love the nonchalant air that you’re trying to project, I really do. You have grown up a lot since almost peeing your pants in a French warehouse. Even though you seem to have made great strides in covering your emotions, I am very adept at observing human behavior. I did not miss the involuntary widening of your eyes, the suddenly dilated pupils, and the increase in the pulse in your neck. Those are all signs of the ‘fight or flight’ syndrome when the adrenal glands pour epinephrine into our bloodstreams. It’s the body’s sympathetic reaction to fear, and we simply cannot control it.”

     “What do you want?” Neal said softly but forcefully.

     Yukanavich watched Neal for a few seconds like a cobra waiting to strike. Neal held his own in the staring contest until “The Hawk” quietly chuckled and said, “You’ve grown a pair, pretty boy. I approve wholeheartedly.”

     Neal ignored the taunting and continued to stare. “Like I said, what is it that you want?”

     The smile disappeared from the man facing him. “I have a project in mind located in your back yard, Neal. With your skills and expertise, it’s right in your bailiwick. You’re still a magician when it comes to safes, am I right?”

     “Not interested!” Neal cut the man off before he could elaborate.

     “Now don’t be too hasty, my friend. I would definitely make it worth your while.” Yukanavich was not to be put off this easily.

     Neal started to rise from the bench, but “The Hawk” grabbed his forearm in a vise-like grip. “Perhaps you should hear me out before you leave in a rush. It would definitely be in your best interest to let me finish my little scenario.”

     Neal acquiesced when he saw the cruel menace in the man’s eyes.

     Yukanavich continued in a soft tone. “I hate to have to put undue pressure on you, Neal, but I could drop a few words in a receptive French ear, and then the Gendarmerie Nationale might want to talk to you about a diamond heist from some years ago. It’s one of their cold cases that I’m sure they would like to close.”

     “Nice try, but I think that the statute of limitations has run out on that one,” Neal retorted.

     “Perhaps on robbery, but not so on murder.” Yukanavich cocked an eyebrow as he studied Neal.

     “You can’t prove that I had anything to do with those murders, and I doubt that the police would simply take your word for it,” Neal said vehemently.

   “Oh Neal, surely you are not that unsophisticated. As you are no doubt aware, there are so many miraculous forensic advances now days, like DNA analysis. It seems to take a very long time to degrade, from what I hear.” The psychopath was playing his trump card and Neal couldn’t be sure that evidence hadn’t been planted fifteen years ago and was now going to suddenly crop up to bite him in the ass.

     “Nobody who knows me is going to believe that I would ever have committed those atrocities,” Neal said with conviction.

     “Oh, do you mean your FBI handler? Yes, my friend, I know about your little stint in prison and about your parole deal. But you see, you will be extradited to France where what he thinks isn’t worth a sou. He, and the FBI for that matter, will have absolutely no influence over your fate.” The repartee back and forth was getting more and more acerbic.

     “Well, if you are so well informed, then you know that I’m electronically monitored, so the success of any robbery that I may be involved in falls dramatically.” Neal responded.

     “Oh come now, Neal. Do not play me for a fool. If you haven’t already figured out a way to circumvent that pesky thing, maybe it’s time that you put your mind to it.” Yukanavich then rose from his seat, clapped a hard hand on Neal’s shoulder and said, “I’ll give you some time to get in the proper frame of mind, and then we can discuss the job in detail. I’ll be in touch.” Then he ambled slowly from the park.

 

**********

    

     Needless to say, sleep eluded Neal that night even though he tried to numb his frantic mind with almost an entire bottle of expensive Bordeaux. He had attempted to reach Mozzie, but whatever the phone call had been about in the park, it had taken the little guy out of communication range. By morning Neal felt as if his head was about to fall off his shoulders. He drank lots of coffee, then chugged a bottle of water to wash down three aspirin. He was so very thankful that Peter was tied up in meetings all day and Neal could avoid his perceptive eyes. He got through the day and that night with no word from either Mozzie or Yukanavich. He knew something was imminent, but he just didn’t know what or when it would come crashing down on him.

     The following day at the FBI office, Jones had clued in Peter that Neal had come to work the day before obviously hung over. That was out of character for the conman, but Peter decided not to mention it. He would simply keep an eye on Neal and see for himself. Although Neal still flashed his trademark smile and bantered words with his co-workers, Peter wasn’t fooled. Something was definitely wrong. He had studied Neal for years, and although his partner probably thought that he had no tells, they were definitely there for Peter to read. The young man’s shoulders were tense and he was just too still. Neal’s kinetic energy was usually boundless, but now he was stretched as tight as a bowstring. He reminded Peter of a sprinter in the starting blocks, just waiting for the signal to take off. If Peter approached him, he knew that there was no chance in hell that Neal would admit that something was bothering him. So Peter simply waited for the shoe to drop when he would undoubtedly be called upon to pick up the pieces of whatever catastrophe that Neal had caused.

 

 

**********

 

     On the evening of the third day, Neal ran into June as she was coming in the door of her mansion. She gave Neal an appraising look, but wisely kept her counsel. She loved the young man like a son, and, just like with her own children, she would never pry into his life. She would definitely make herself available if he ever wanted to discuss a problem, but he would have to make the first overture because she had too much respect for his privacy.

     Therefore, instead of remarking on the anxious look she saw in his eyes, she simply made small talk about her day. She told Neal that she had just come from a steering committee meeting at the local hospital, which she generously endowed on a yearly basis. Her chauffeur had driven her into the downtown area, but was unable to pick her up because of inexplicable car trouble. She then told Neal about the nicest gentleman who saw her standing under the hospital awning, and who had offered to drive her home. She thanked him but told him that she had already called a cab.

    “He refused to leave me standing there alone, so we chatted for a while until the cab arrived. He seemed so European and polite in his manners, and then he insisted on giving me his card. I thought it was a bit odd, but I stuck it in my handbag anyway so as not to offend him,” June innocently finished her story.

     A feeling of dread gripped Neal’s heart. He asked if he could see the card and, as he suspected, the name Vassily Yukanavich was embossed in a sophisticated typeface on high quality ivory linen stock. Below it was a phone number. Neal knew that “The Hawk” was sending him a message. “Make up your mind soon because the ones that you care about are never safe while I’m around.”

     June had noted how all color had drained from Neal’s face. She solicitously took his arm and steered him into the parlor where she proceeded to pour him a brandy.

     “Can I help, my dear boy?” June quietly asked.

     Neal looked at her with haunted eyes. “June, I know this will sound bizarre, but can you take an impromptu cruise somewhere, or go and stay with a friend for a while, preferably someone who lives out of the country?”

     June was still as insightful as when she was in her prime, and she was definitely not prone to panicking. She had never, ever in her life backed down out of fear. “You’re afraid for me, Neal, that’s obvious. But I need to know why.” she said gently.

     Neal knew that June deserved the truth. She had a spine of steel forged over the years while being married to Byron and nothing that he could say would shock or offend her. Therefore, her told her everything and reiterated how important it was for her to get herself somewhere safe away from the danger that Yukanavich posed.

     “Neal,” she began in measured tones, “this is my home, and I will not be driven from it by some homicidal bully. I have faced down lots of dangerous characters in my time. Not all of Byron’s associates were simply conmen or charlatans, and through the years, he made some pretty intimidating enemies. Many I suspected were lethal, if given the opportunity.

     Now this Yukanavich… if you did the job for him, do you really think that will be the end of it? He will always be holding something over your head and you will never be free of him. Can you talk to Peter about him?”

     “June, I can’t prove anything, and knowing Peter, he’ll go at this guy full tilt. That’s only going to bring him front and center into Yukanavitch’s crosshairs. “The Hawk” kills for pleasure; he would most likely make me watch to pay for my belligerence. I need to keep some distance from Peter until I can figure out a plan. And I really wish that you would reconsider putting some miles between the two of us, at least temporarily.” The wheels were spinning in Neal’s brain.

     “Neal, don’t worry about this old lady. I’ll be just fine.” June smiled softly and placed a delicate kiss on Neal’s cheek.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

     The next morning when Neal descended the stairs, he noted that the mansion suddenly resembled an armed fortress. Apparently, June still retained membership in a certain kind of club from years ago comprised of members who took care of their own. Celeste, the elderly housekeeper who had been in residence since Neal had moved in, was nowhere to be seen. In her place was a “butler” who stood at least 6’4” with a physique that rivaled a formidable football defensive back. Although attired in a conservative suit, Neal noted a suspicious bulge under his left arm.

     There was also a new cook, with arms like massive ham hocks and a Glock tucked into his apron at the small of his back. He was making breakfast for the trio of “painters” who had suddenly appeared with drop cloths and painting paraphernalia. Apparently, they were still waiting for the paint to arrive, and, in the meantime, they just sat around idly in various parts of the house. When Neal stepped outside, he noted four new Rastafarian “gardeners” sporting dreadlocks and small pruning shears. Every once in a while, they would clip a snippet or two off of a boxwood, but, for the most part, they simply circled the home inspecting the plants and shrubbery. A newly hired chauffeur, his shaved head almost as shiny as the earring that he wore, lounged against the Bentley that he occasionally gave a half-hearted swipe with a chamois.

     This overt show of strength alleviated some of Neal’s worries. Now he just had to get through another day. He knew that Peter had been covertly watching him while he was at work, so Neal tried his best to act normally. But his handler knew him too well. He was just thankful that Peter hadn’t demanded that they have one of their little “talks” about whatever Neal was up to -- those talks that usually ended with “Do the right thing, Neal!” Right now, Neal had absolutely no idea what the right thing was!

     Actually, Peter had considered boxing Neal into a corner and demanding to know what was going down. He had spent hours going over the tracking data from the anklet. All it showed was that in the last several days, Neal had only come and gone to the FBI building, and was sticking close to home in his free hours. But something was definitely off-kilter. Neal looked brittle when he thought no one was watching. He still did his job brilliantly, as usual, but the joie de vivre was absent, and only someone really close to him would notice. Peter usually had a preemptive and proactive policy, but for once, he was uncertain how to proceed with Neal. If his CI was to grow into his new role of law-abiding citizen, then Peter had to allow him some autonomy to work out his own problems. That didn’t mean that he couldn’t still keep his fingers on the pulse of the situation.

**************

Neal was at home that evening when a secret panel softly slid open in his dressing area. Mozzie had come back from his mysterious little jaunt, but when he saw the protective wagons circled around the house, he thought it wise to access a different point of entry. When Neal, Mozzie and June had first forged a bond years ago, June felt secure enough to show him and Neal a special passage that Byron had installed when he was in the process of building the mansion. It was really an old bootlegger’s tunnel that one could access several blocks away from a dry cleaning establishment’s basement. Of course, back in the day, one of Byron’s cronies had owned and run that business. Tonight it had been child’s play for Mozzie to gain entry into the shop after hours and make his way clandestinely to Neal’s loft. When he stepped into the common area of the apartment with a small cardboard bakery box in his hand, he saw Neal at his dining table with his head in his hands. He looked distressed, but then Mozzie wore the same traumatized look.

Mozzie walked slowly towards Neal, still clutching the mysterious box that he gently placed on the tabletop. “They got into my safe house, Neal, while I was away visiting Mr. Jeffries in Detroit. Somebody breached my fortress and left me a message,” he said in a broken voice. Then he opened the box so that Neal, with a certain amount of trepidation could peer at the contents. Inside, nestled on a bed of soft white flannel, was Estelle, Mozzie’s beloved homing pigeon. Her head lay flopped to the side, and it was obvious that someone had maliciously wrung her neck.

     “What kind of monster would inflict this travesty on me? I know that I have made certain people unhappy from time to time, but I can’t think of anyone this vile.” Mozzie’s eyes filled with tears that he unashamedly let roll down his cheeks.

     “Unfortunately I can,” said Neal, who then led his friend to the sofa and told him the wretched tale from his early life before he had made Mozzie’s acquaintance.

Mozzie had utter shock on his face when he spoke. “I’ve heard of ‘The Hawk’ through the years, but I always chalked him up as just a figment of urban legend. You know, like the bogyman, created to make people afraid so that you could manipulate them and keep them in line.”

     “No, Moz, he’s real, alright,” Neal confirmed.

     Mozzie now had a look of hatred in his brimming eyes, and an air of determination. “I know people, Neal. I still have certain contacts in the Detroit mob who owe me. I’m going to call in some favors. This spawn of the devil is going to pay, and I want to be there to watch him suffer! So, don’t worry, Neal, he’s not going to be around for much longer, and you won’t have to perform any more jobs for him, except maybe to throw some dirt on his grave, if they ever find the body!”

     “No, Mozzie, I just can’t take the risk that something will happen to you. You need to go to ground so I’m not worrying that you’re a sitting duck. Please, Moz, please,” Neal begged.

     “I’m not leaving you to deal with this on your own, Neal. After all that we have been through, what kind of friend is that?” Mozzie was adamant.

     “You can help me more behind the scenes, Moz. You know that I’ll keep you in the loop.” Mozzie was only slightly mollified that Neal had not immediately run to Peter with his problem. His young friend was certainly between a rock and a hard place right now.

“Neal, you know that you could just disappear as well. We could go together.”

     A year before, Mozzie, with assistance from his friend, Sally, a technological wizard, had managed to hack Neal’s anklet. Neal could now take it off and then quickly reconnect it without any alert received in the Marshals’ database. They had tried the technique out just once for testing purposes, but after that Neal never once removed it. He just couldn’t betray Peter’s faith in him. When all was said and done, he wanted to prove to Peter and himself that he could stay on the straight and narrow so that Peter would be proud of him. Peter would never be proud of him now if he knew the dark side of Neal’s past. It made Neal sick to imagine the look on Peter’s face if he ever found out about the horrors that were part of who Neal was. Being led away in chains on his way to a French prison for the rest of his life would probably be Peter’s last image of his CI.

     “I don’t want to run, Moz,” the distressed young felon finally replied. “What kind of life would that be trying to constantly elude not only the FBI but also a world-class assassin with global contacts? I’ve got to stay and see this through, one way or the other.”

     “Are you thinking of taking the assignment, Neal? It would get him off your back temporarily, and maybe make him complacent, a prime time for us to strike back.” Mozzie had set his mind to implementing a plan. “But then, if you do carry it out, he may decide that you’re expendable afterwards and….” Mozzie couldn’t finish the thought as he looked towards where Estelle still lay on the tabletop.

     “I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Neal admitted. “Right now I just want to safeguard my friends. We have to think of a plan to get Peter and Elizabeth out of harm’s way.” Neal’s forehead was furrowed in concentration.

     “Leave that to me,” Mozzie said blithely without an explanation.

Eventually Mozzie came to a decision. “I’m going to probably be bunking with Sally for a while, even though she doesn’t know it yet. Her bolt hole can serve as our remote center of operations for anything that you need technologically, that is if you decide to do whatever this job is. Sally’s really off the grid and nobody can find her if she doesn’t want to be found. I’ll keep in touch with you on my burner phone.”

     After a few seconds, Mozzie stared at Neal with a sad and forlorn expression. “Take care of yourself, mon frer. I don’t want to lose my best friend.” He then delicately picked up Estelle’s little casket and departed through the secret passage, forbidding himself to look back at Neal, least he change his mind about leaving.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Peter and Neal both continued their little game of watching each other while pretending not to. However, Peter’s gut had gone on high alert when El excitedly informed him the previous evening over dinner of a wonderful gift that she had received. El had been the party planner and caterer for a friend of June’s who had hosted a “Sweet Sixteen” party for her granddaughter a few months back. Out of the blue, this very satisfied client had sent a gift certificate for a week’s stay for two at the luxurious, ultra-expensive Bardessono Inn in Napa Valley, California. When El looked it up online, she was flabbergasted to learn that it cost $700 a night to stay at this property, which was nestled in the picturesque little town of Yountville. The only caveat was that the stay would commence in just two days.

     El was already mentally packing her bags and urging Peter to do the same. It would be like a second honeymoon for the two of them. Peter took his animated wife in his arms and hugged her close. He then deflated her balloon of happiness by telling her that he just couldn’t leave right now.

     “But Peter, you hardly ever take a day off from work. We’ve really only had one actual vacation in the last ten years. Can’t Diana and Jones handle your case load for just seven days?”

     “Things are a bit complicated right now, El. But you should definitely go. Why don’t you ask your mother to come with you?”

     Peter hated keeping his real worries from his wife, but this whole impromptu gift had Neal written all over it. It was another ominous Caffrey omen. Just yesterday, Peter had decided, on the spur of the moment, to pick Neal up at the mansion instead of meeting him at the office. For the last week, this had been the pattern because Neal always claimed that he had errands before work. His tracking data said otherwise. He had come straight from June’s to the FBI building with no stops beforehand, not even for coffee. When Peter arrived unexpectedly at the mansion early that morning, he was taken aback by the overt show of muscle and concealed firepower that now resided on Riverside Drive. When he questioned Neal about all the new “personnel,” he was given some lame excuse about June doing some work in the house and using family contacts for the job.

     “You know, I haven’t seen Mozzie around lately,” Peter casually remarked as they drove to the office. “What’s he up to these days. I sort of miss him like you miss an itch when it’s gone.”

     “Oh, you know Moz, I’m sure he’s out and about doing his own thing.”

Neal’s attempt at levity was not up to his usual standard, in Peter’s estimation, but he let that lay for a minute. This whole thing was nearing critical mass to Peter’s worried mind. Neal had secured the drawbridge to his castle, and had set plans in motion to protect those around him. Peter was sure that he was gearing up for some epic battle.

     “Neal, are you finally ready to tell me what’s really going on? No judgments, no recriminations, I promise.” Peter said gently as they sat in the car in their numbered spot in the FBI parking garage. “Whatever it is, let me help.”

     “You have a really suspicious mind, Peter. There’s nothing for you to worry about. Just take your lovely wife on the trip that she can’t stop talking about to the California vineyards,” Neal urged. “You two don’t ever get downtime with each other, so go, and enjoy. I’ll be fine with Jones and Diana riding herd on me, but if you’re not comfortable with that, then put me under house arrest until you get back. I can survive a week at June’s. It won’t be a hardship, I promise you.”

     So Peter got absolutely nowhere, and he was frustrated and running out of patience. Warning flares were exploding like fireworks on his Neal radar, but there was nothing that he could do. The next morning, he bid an ambivalent goodbye to El and her mother at the airport. He would miss his wife terribly, but he was happy that she was going to have a good time. He was also relieved that she would be a whole continent away from New York before whatever Caffrey apocalypse erupted.

     Stopping for coffee before beginning his workday, Peter had just started across the street to his car when a huge, black SUV roared down the block with him in its sights. He could see nothing through the tinted windows before it was almost upon him, and only a spike of adrenalin enabled him to lunge towards the curb and avoid becoming a fatality. A bystander had seen the near miss and immediately called 911. Responding paramedics insisted that Peter go to the ER where a sprained left wrist was confirmed, and quickly immobilized in a lightweight splint. He was sitting on a stretcher in the ER waiting for a ride when Diana arrived with a clearly distraught Neal in tow.

     Peter had never witnessed a Caffrey meltdown before, not even under the worst of circumstances, but if the fear he saw in Neal’s eyes was any indication, a meltdown seemed very close. Neal impulsively engulfed Peter in an awkward hug and Peter could feel the shivers that ran the length and breadth of the young man’s back. But then the conman managed to pull himself back together and pasted a tremulous smile on his face.

     Diana could sense the emotional discomfort in the situation and defused the tension by telling Peter that she was going to take him home. “No office today, Boss, per doctor’s orders, so don’t try to pull rank on me!”

     “Fine, fine,” Peter acquiesced. “After you drop me off, you can take Caffrey back home as well.”

     Turning to his CI, he said in a serious tone that didn’t allow any wiggle room for argument, “You’ve got the day off, Neal, but I want you to stay put in your loft.”

     Neal gave him a mock salute and tried valiantly to keep the smile in place and his jaunty air intact. Peter gave him points for the effort, at least.

 

                                                                                                      ***************

 

     Once Neal was safely ensconced in his loft, he made a call from memory. It was the number that was printed on Yukanavich’s card that he had given June. Neal had come to a decision. He was going to fix this once and for all! He arranged to have the mercenary meet him this afternoon in his loft.

     At the appointed hour, “The Hawk” was escorted to Neal’s door wedged between a phalanx of ten very able-bodied and very menacing African-American sentinels. They had met him at the door to the mansion and stripped him of his clothes until they were completely satisfied that he had nothing concealed that would pose a threat to anyone under their protection. Neal thought that they had exhibited considerable genteel grace when they allowed the man to get dressed again before their meeting.

     Yukanavich attempted to convey a contemptuous yet cavalier air when he saw Neal, but Neal could sense the rage that was barely below the surface. “All of this nonsense was really unnecessary, Neal. If I had wanted to harm you, you would already be dead.”

     “You’re on my turf now, Vassily, so my house, my rules.” Neal tone was cold. “I believe that we have some things to discuss.”

     “I am prepared to do that, but not while your little army is surrounding me,” Yukanavich stated coolly.

     Neal indicated the open French doors that led to the rooftop balcony. “After you.”

     Neal made sure that “The Hawk’s” back was to the room when he took a seat. Neal sat facing the glass doors. June’s militia had stationed themselves just inside those doors, two deep, at a parade rest stance, watching every move. With a nod of Neal’s head, they would undoubtedly be on any threat immediately, if necessary.

     “What’s the job?” Neal was succinct.

     “Concisely, I need something that is locked in a safe deposit box in a vault located in the First Financial Bank in Midtown Manhattan,” Yukanavich began.

     “If you want me to accept this assignment, I’ll need quite a bit more information,” Neal was unrelenting.

     The mercenary was not happy, but he complied. “One month ago, I had procured the cooperation of a certain bank employee in Singapore, where the Credit Suisse International headquarters is located. His task was to obtain a series of specific account numbers and passcodes. Apparently, he was successful in obtaining this information, but then decided to take a spontaneous holiday rather than meeting me at our predetermined rendezvous. I tracked this person to New York and persuaded him to tell me where he had secreted this list, but, unfortunately, he suffered a cardiac event of some sort before he could tell me where his key was located.”

     Neal could just imagine what kind of cardiac event had occurred. Yukanavich most likely had taken the torture one step too far while trying to get the bank clerk to talk, and the unfortunate man’s heart had ceased to beat.

     “So, in a nutshell, I need your expertise to gain access to the vault at the First Financial Bank, and then open safe deposit box number 1282. When you obtain and bring me that list, I will be out of your life,” Yukanavich promised.

     Neal let his nemesis sit idly for a few minutes. He had no doubt that he could pull this off with Mozzie’s help, but he contrarily wanted to draw this out just to see “The Hawk’s” reaction. Mozzie had always said that Neal was like a kid who felt compelled to poke sticks into a hornet’s nest, simply for the perverse pleasure of challenging danger. Eventually, Neal steepled his fingers in front of his face and regarded his enemy solemnly.

     “This is doable,” he began slowly, “but there are stipulations attached to my cooperation.”

     Yukanavich sneered, “Are you really going to insult me by adding conditions? Do you not realize that I hold your life, and the lives of your friends, in my hands?”

     Neal answered in a flat, unemotional tone of voice. “It is you who are in need of my services right now, so my continued good health is paramount to the success of the operation. As for my friends and associates, well, that brings us to my first stipulation.

     You will never again threaten, intimidate or harm anyone in my personal or professional sphere. This is completely non-negotiable.

   Secondly, I will implement and carry out this venture alone, without you or any of your men anywhere nearby. I do not intend to tell you my plan of action, or when I will carry it out, because I do not want anyone harmed who may innocently be in the way of its execution.

     Thirdly, afterwards, I will meet you on the same bench in the same park as our first meeting. So be available by phone on a moment’s notice because I will not wait very long. You will come alone, I will give you the list, and then we will part company permanently. You will never again contact me or try to blackmail me in anyway. If you do, I will make it my mission to remove the cloak from the mysterious mercenary and paid assassin who calls himself ‘The Hawk.’ Not many people have seen your face and have lived to tell about it.”

     With that being said, Neal retrieved an over-sized sketchpad that lay facedown on the table. He lifted the cover and turned it so that Yukanavich was now staring at a detailed portrait of himself.

     “A very technologically gifted associate has down-loaded this image onto a computer that is more secure than the one that Langley possesses. Vassily Yukanavich is probably not your real name, but this is definitely your real face, which will appear on every law-enforcement website around the globe with a detailed explanation of your previous exploits. There will be posters in train stations and subways, and billboards along the highways of every major city with a caption under your face that designates you as a paid thug and killer. Commercial spots and alerts will appear periodically on television. Hell, maybe they’ll even put your mug on milk cartons. You will become more well known than the Kardashians after they are finished with you. Do you really think that anyone in their right mind will offer you contract work after that? Even if you decide to kill me, my friends will still make sure to implement and carry out the plan. Have I made myself clear?”

     “I think that you’re bluffing,” snarled Yukanavich.

     “I could be, the same as you could be bluffing about my DNA in the French warehouse. Do we really want to call each other’s bluff,” asked Neal was a raised eyebrow.

     “And what if you decide to take a page from the Swiss banker’s book and try to leave town with the list?” Yukanavich asked.

     “I keep my word,” Neal answered ominously, which could have meant a lot of things.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

     Neal walked into the FBI bullpen the next morning looking like a new man. After the meeting with Yukanavich, Neal had immediately begun work with Mozzie and Sally. They had faxed him the blueprints of the bank building, and today the two were posing as part of a window cleaning crew. The entire rear of the First Financial Bank was comprised of endless glass panes, and provided a prime point of access for anyone who was criminally inclined. After Mozzie and Sally stopped work for the day, they left the platform and supplies, along with the equipment that Neal would need for the break-in, at the level of the top floor. Sally would work her magic at the appointed time, disabling all of the sophisticated alarm systems electronically for exactly 58 minutes. After 60 minutes, the system would re-boot itself and come online again. Neal was sure that he could crack the vault and get out in under an hour. He would be long gone before the alarm became active again and reported a breach. Thankfully, the bank did not employ night guards in the building because they perceived their security system to be impenetrable. They had never met Sally! As Neal had told “The Hawk,” this was doable.

     Peter studied Neal as they sat opposite each other over coffee later in the day. Neal was clear-eyed and calm, almost his real self, or the person that Peter had come to know as Neal Caffrey. That could only mean one thing; Neal had made some sort of decision or plan, and Peter was petrified of what that might be. He knew that Neal had not left his loft yesterday because he had the tracking data up continuously on his home laptop. Therefore, whatever had transpired recently had taken place in Neal’s apartment. Peter just wished that he had a clue. He and Neal left together at the end of the workday. While they may have physically gone their separate ways, Neal was never far from Peter’s thoughts; actually, he took up residence in Peter’s head for the rest of the night.

 

 

**********

 

      At one in the morning, Neal, dressed from head to toe in black, was ready to begin the operation. He had thin, black latex gloves in his pocket as well as blackface grease and night goggles. An ear bud was in place that connected him to Mozzie and Sally on the other end. There was a sophisticated watch on his wrist that had a timer accurate down to the second. It was precisely in sync with Sally’s. Neal accessed, for the first time, an app on his laptop that Mozzie had installed many months ago. With a few strokes of the keys, his anklet sprung open and he let out a breath that he didn’t realize that he had been holding. He quickly removed his FBI tether and reconnected it, then placed it carefully in the center of his dining table. He looked at that simple apparatus for a few minutes. He was surprised to feel a certain sadness almost overwhelm him. That anklet represented a different life, a new life, a life that had a future. What he was about to embark on would take him in a different direction. Ultimately, seeing that anklet sitting forlornly unattached to him, felt like a betrayal to Peter.

     Neal mentally shook himself. It was time to move on, no second thoughts.

     When Neal arrived at rear of the bank, he took a small remote control from his pocket and pushed a button. Soundlessly, the window washer’s platform started to descend, pulling behind it a thin black tarp. By the time it reached ground level, the entire back of the four-story building was sheathed in an impenetrable blackout cloth. Neal disappeared behind the camouflage and secured the bottom of the sheet with industrial-strength suction cups. He then mounted the platform behind the screen and elevated himself to a second floor window. Communicating with Sally, both set the timers on their watches, and the countdown began. Mozzie had left all the tools that he would need, including a laser cutter that made short work of the window. With the agility of a gymnast, he was though the opening and found himself in an office. According to Sally, no alarms had been triggered.

     With the blueprints indelibly etched in his mind, he moved quickly to the bank’s vault area. It took him exactly eighteen minutes to get inside and locate box number 1282. Although the box had a combination lock as well as a slot for a key, that only took up ten more minutes of his time. Inside, as Yukanavich had suspected, was a precise list of what appeared to be bank account numbers and corresponding passcodes. Stuffing these inside his shirt, Neal secured the box and replaced it in its allotted space in the vault. He then carefully closed the vault and proceeded back to his point of access. He left through the compromised window and, when on the ground, wiped off the blackface grease and started walking away at a leisurely pace. When the hour turned over, the alarms would report a break-in, but then bank officials would be stymied because they wouldn’t have a clue what had been taken.

     “You certainly haven’t lost your touch, mon frer. You got it done with twenty minutes to spare,” Mozzie chortled through the earwig.

     “Yeah, well that was the easy part,” Neal said. “The next part is the really tricky maneuver.”

     Once again seated on the same concrete bench in Washington Square Park, he made the fateful call that would summon Satan. Yukanavich must have taken Neal at his word about being prompt, because not ten minutes later the killer came slowly through the dark to join Neal at the rendezvous site. Without a word spoken, Neal simply handed him the list and waited for the ax to fall. “The Hawk” took out a small penlight and perused what Neal had given him. He seemed to be satisfied that this was indeed the real deal.

     “Have you made a copy of this?” he demanded to know.

     “I don’t double-cross people when I do a job for them. My word is my bond, and, as I told you earlier, I will uphold my end of this bargain if you honor yours and leave me and my friends alone,” Neal said in a low voice. He really thought that Yukanavich would now consider him a loose end, and that he would forfeit his life this night. He was prepared for that and had made peace with it. His future was now out of his hands. “The Hawk” stared at Neal for a long moment, then slid from the bench and faded away, leaving Neal still holding his breath.

   Neal stayed rooted to the bench waiting for a bullet to his brain from a silenced gun. How much pain would there be? Perhaps a blade from behind would sever his carotid and he would bleed out quickly without being able to utter a sound. How long would that take, and would the minutes seem like hours? If his life was going to end here, he hoped that it would be quick. He considered himself a paper tiger, a coward at heart; he trembled at the thought of the torture this man could inflict, and he wondered how long he would last.

     As the minutes dragged on, and he was left sitting alone in the dark, Neal finally dared to hope, and he let his rush of panic slowly recede, and his heart rate return to normal. Cautiously he flexed the muscles in his arms and rotated his head from side to side to relieve the tension in his neck. On rubbery legs, he made his way out of the park, eventually stopping on his return home at another bench that faced the river. It was only then that he reassured Mozzie and Sally that he was unharmed and took the bug out of his ear canal. He needed some time alone to think and process. Neal sat for a couple of hours in deep contemplation while the water lapped softly at the banks of the river. Melancholy overtook him because he had allowed his past to taint his future. He was mourning the loss of the person who he had strived to be.

     At last, just before the first faint streaks of another dawning day appeared on the horizon, he availed himself of the bootlegger’s tunnel to return to his apartment. He felt an overwhelming fatigue, and it was hard putting one foot in front of the other. Still dressed in his cat burglar black, he stepped into the common area of his loft and froze in mid-step. Peter Burke was seated at his dining table! His handler’s brown eyes locked onto Neal’s blue ones in a steady gaze. Eventually Peter nodded his head, indicating the anklet that sat on the table and asked, “How long?”

     Neal knew that Peter wanted to know how long Neal had been able to circumvent his monitor. He had never lied to Peter, and he wasn’t going to start now, no matter whom Neal had allowed himself to metamorphose into this night. “A year, give or take.”

     “How many times?” was Peter’s next question.

   Neal looked his mentor in the eye and answered honestly. “Just once…..tonight.”

     He wouldn’t blame Peter if he didn’t believe him. He had broken his friend’s trust, and most likely would never be able to regain it, even if Peter decided not to send him back to prison. Neal knew that he had to sit down or he would fall down, so he stumbled to a chair and faced the FBI agent, ready to take anything that was coming. However, he was totally unprepared for what Peter said next.

     “Yukanavich is dead, Neal. There was a shootout at the Teterboro airport when he tried to board his private jet. He lost; Homeland Security won. End of story.”

     Seeing Neal’s stunned expression, Peter slowly withdrew a cream-colored envelope from his inside pocket and laid it on the table next to the anklet. Neal felt his eyes begin to fill and he couldn’t trust himself to look up at his friend.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

     Earlier in the day, when both men had finished their work at the FBI, Peter had initially gone home. He shared some pizza with Satchmo in the quiet house, missing El and the unspoken comfort that she always offered when he was feeling down. He took the dog for a long walk late that night and returned home to watch Neal’s tracking data for yet another hour. As midnight chimed on the clock in the hall, Peter could not sit still any longer. His gut just wouldn’t allow him to leave any stone unturned, and, as a last ditch effort, he returned to the 21st floor of the FBI building and stopped at Neal’s desk. He did a thorough examination of every drawer, even pulling them off the tracks and looking underneath. He pulled up the recent search history on Neal’s computer. He found nothing that indicated that Neal was doing anything other than investigating the cases that were part of their workload. Peter blew out a frustrated breath and sat down in the desk chair to consider his next move.

     Neal, to Peter’s perpetual amusement, was borderline OCD, so the top of his desk hardly had any clutter. Everything had a place, and everything was in its place. Of course, there were some personal touches, like the small bust of Socrates that occupied the right corner. Neal sometimes took a swipe at the top of the philosopher’s head for luck before an operation. When Peter looked at the small bust, he noticed the edge of something cream-colored sticking out from underneath. When he unearthed what turned out to be an envelope, he noticed that his own name was written across the front in Neal’s neat cursive. Peter hesitated for only a minute before tearing open the flap, pulling out a single sheet of paper and beginning to read.

                   

> _Dear Peter,_
> 
> _If you are reading this letter, then you no doubt have been made aware that I am missing, and you have probably discovered the anklet in my apartment. Now you are searching my desk trying to get a handle on where I may have gone. I want you to know that I did not run. I have never lied to you, Peter, so please believe that this is the truth. If I am missing, it means that I am dead. You may never recover my body to prove that fact, but, nonetheless, it will be true._
> 
> _Recently, an evil specter has re-entered my life after fifteen years and is putting everyone that I care about in jeopardy. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants from me, and, most likely, after he gets his way, I will be of no more value to him. He is truly malevolent. I know because I have witnessed the unspeakable atrocities that he enjoys inflicting. I’ve tried protecting those that I love, but it would only be a matter of time before harm would befall June, Mozzie, Elizabeth or you. I just couldn’t let that happen because of how much you all have come to mean to me._
> 
> _Peter, you have filled such an empty void in my life since I have been working with you. You took a chance on me, and I will forever be grateful. I suppose that you represent the father that I never had, but wished for my whole life. I’m just so sorry that I have let you down once again._
> 
> _If you have been to my apartment, hopefully you have noticed the portrait that is on my easel. This is the psychopath who goes by the name Vassily Yukanavich, but I’m sure that is a pseudonym. Most people have simply come to know him as “The Hawk.” He is a global mercenary, assassin and terrorist. He works for the highest bidder with no national altruism. When I was twenty years old, I personally watched him commandeer a warehouse of weapons as well as a cache of cut diamonds in the French countryside. He then brutally tortured and murdered six men in that same warehouse. I know that he will most likely be out of your jurisdiction by the time that you read this, but I’m sure Interpol, for one, would like to get into the act. I would guess that he is on a lot of other watch lists around the world._
> 
> _Thank you again, Peter, for everything. Give Elizabeth a hug for me._
> 
> _Neal_

     Peter was galvanized into action. Traffic was light at this time of night, but he still set a record getting to the mansion on Riverside Drive. June’s posse was still in residence and grudgingly admitted him so that he could sprint up the steps to Neal’s loft. He froze when he saw the anklet on the table, but then his methodical left-brain took over. He took a picture of the portrait on the easel and called his contact at Homeland Security, who was suddenly very interested in the elusive shadow known as “The Hawk.” Interpol and other global authorities had been stymied for decades in their search for him because they never had a visual on the man.

     Then Peter called Dan Shattuck, his contemporary at the NYPD, who promised to let him know of any suspicious activity that was reported tonight. Lastly, Peter mobilized his FBI team, rousting most out of bed, and had them liaison with the NYPD as well as Homeland. All were coordinating to cover points of egress from the city. New York had trains, buses, boats, several airports, as well as numerous highways leading out of the city. This was going to be a Herculean effort.

     Then Peter paced the floor and thought of the young man who had plucked his nerves for years from the onset of the chase to his release years later into Peter’s custody. “Custody”..… what a misused and misunderstood word. If you looked up the definition of “custody,” it literally meant being in someone’s care for safekeeping, for protection. Yet Neal was the one doing the protecting ….. at the ultimate cost.

     Why hadn’t Neal felt secure enough to confide in Peter? Was Peter so wrapped up in their game of cat and mouse that he simply had not recognized the need in the young man? But then Neal was a chameleon, turning himself into whatever he wanted people to see. He wanted Peter to see a self-assured, cocky, devil-may-care conman, but perhaps Neal was really just conning himself into believing that. Why couldn’t he allow Peter to see who he really was, a lost soul who wanted a connection to something, to someone? Peter felt that he had failed, and now it could be too late.

     His deep introspection was interrupted by the beeping of his phone. Dan Shattuck was calling to let Peter know that a break-in had occurred earlier in the evening at First Financial Bank. When the bank manager came in and did a thorough inventory, it looked as if nothing had been taken. The scene was eerily undisturbed except for a broken window and some interesting tools on a window-washer’s platform. Peter knew that something had been taken; that something just hadn’t been discovered yet. Now that Neal’s part of the devil’s bargain was complete, would his reward be the loss of his life?

     Peter watched the first streaks of dawn begin to chase away the dark of the night. He had not moved from the dining table since the ache in his calf muscles had forced him to stop pacing. Suddenly, there was movement in his peripheral vision, and Neal, eerily dressed all in black, materialized. Peter closed his eyes for a second to regain his composure, and then quietly asked two questions. After that, he set about putting someone back together who looked as if he had been broken into fragments.

     “Tell me about him, Neal,” Peter said softly, as he sat across from the young man. “You knew him fifteen years ago?”

     Peter noted the fine tremors in Neal’s hands. He wouldn’t meet Peter’s eyes.

     “You take away a lot of evil’s power if you drag it out into the light,” Peter coaxed.

     At first, Peter didn’t think that Neal was going to respond, but eventually he began to speak in a disembodied voice, while staring off into the distance. “He killed people for the sheer pleasure that he got from it, Peter. Six men -- he tortured six men for hours and hours. He knew just how to maim and hurt, and make it last for what seemed like forever.” Neal, eyes glassy and unfocused on the realities of his loft, seemed to be back in that warehouse fifteen years ago.

     “I can still hear the inhuman sounds that his victims made with each cut. I can still remember the smells -- the strong coppery scent of all the blood and the sharp ammonia smell of urine. And the colors were vibrant, too. The blood was red at first, but then, after a while, it got viscous and turned rusty brown on the cement. And intestines are very white, you know. I saw that when he disemboweled one man. The guy didn’t die right away; he just sat there staring at his own insides that were now on the outside. He could still see because “The Hawk” hadn’t cut out his eyes as he had done to another man. And it was really scary to watch a man’s body continue to twitch, even after his heart had stopped beating. I couldn’t understand how that could be, so one time I looked it up on the Internet and found out that I hadn’t imagined it. It was because the nerve fibers in the body hadn’t yet gotten the message from the brain that death had occurred. I don’t know why I had to know……I just did.”

     Neal was speaking in one long, run-on sentence, with no cadence or emotion in his voice. He could have been reciting the multiplication tables with his lack of inflection. He was stuck in a place where Peter couldn’t go.

     During World War I, the British had coined the phrase, “shell shock,” when doughboys returned from the Front in fugue states, unable to escape reliving unspeakable horrors in their minds. They were sent to convalesce in the bucolic countryside, as if that could erase the revulsion and fear that possessed them. Almost a century later, a multitude of American veterans returned home from various parts of the Mideast to a vagrant existence on the streets, or to the prospect of languishing for years in Veterans Hospitals, waiting to be treated for what has now become known as PTSD, or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. However, even after almost 100 years, nobody has yet come up with a magic elixir to “fix” the problems. Neal had tried his best to bury his Pandora’s Box of terrors with fifteen years of living, but seeing “The Hawk” again had pulled it from the past and ripped it open with a vengeance.

     Very slowly and tentatively, Peter reached out and placed a steady hand on Neal’s arm. He needed to bring his friend back from the hell that his mind was reliving. He needed to ground Neal in the present. Finally, Neal shuddered and asked in a small voice, “Is he really dead, Peter?”

     “Homeland Security was on the scene at the Teterboro airport where a man, whose passport identified him as Ivan Kuchenco, had a Lear jet waiting with a flight plan filed for the Grand Cayman Island. That Ivan Kuchenco looked identical to your portrait over there,” Peter said as he nodded towards Neal’s easel. “He and his four associates chose to make a stand, and initiated a firefight for which they were vastly outnumbered. They all died in a hail of bullets, Neal. The evil -- Yukanavich, Kuchenco, or whoever he called himself -- is now forever out of your life and can’t hurt you or anyone else ever again.”

     “Peter, he probably had a list of account numbers on him,” Neal began, but Peter immediately cut him off before he could continue.

     “It’s Homeland Security’s problem now, Neal. Let them try to put the pieces of the puzzle together, if they can. The FBI is totally out of the picture; you know how territorial national agencies can be.”

     Peter then pulled Neal to his feet and drew him into a comforting embrace. “We’re taking the day off, Buddy. You are going to lay down on that bed and get some sleep before you fall down. I’ll stay right here, and maybe catch a few hours rest on your couch, that is, after I make arrangements to replace that.” Peter twitched his head at the anklet on the table.

     “I seem to remember hearing that they have a new and improved model that is supposed to be unfailingly tamper-proof. After all, Neal, while you’re in my custody, it’s _**my**_ job to keep **_you_** safe.”

    

 


End file.
